Wound Numbers
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: A oneshot arising from a typo. Really. Tim centered...as usual.


**A/N:** Believe it or not, this story actually arose from a typo...yes, a typo. A friend and I were chatting on NFA and she accidentally typed wound numbers instead of round numbers. She then suggested that it would make a good title for a fic...so...I wrote one. :) It's a little odd...definitely not my normal style, but... Enjoy! Oneshot. Spoilers up to season 5...not big ones, but the references are there.

**Disclaimer:** I do not now, nor have I ever (nor _will_ I ever) own NCIS in any way shape or form. More's the pity.

* * *

**Wound Numbers**  
by Enthusiastic Fish

Breathe in..._What number can you put on wounds?_ Tim wondered. _How many does it take before a life is changed forever...or ended?_ Breathe out...

One bullet had killed Kate; one shot between the eyes. Her life was over. A split second. Everyone had been so sure they were safe. One second. One bullet. And then what? Then, nothing. They had said good-bye. Kate hadn't. She hadn't had the time...but everyone else did...too much time...too much time to think about it. Tim had screwed up his courage and walked down to Autopsy. He remembered the feeling as he had pulled open the drawer...so like a filing cabinet...and he had said good-bye.

Breathe in..._Is it necessary?_ Tim wanted to know. _Why do we have to lose so many...so much of our lives to wounds?_ Breathe out...

Two hands around Erin's throat. It had taken an eternity to get from Thorne's apartment to hers. Two hands had taken the breath from Erin...while he watched from perfect safety. Tim's own two hands had not been able to bring it back. Nothing he had been able to do could bring her back. She had still looked beautiful, even in death. What could have happened if she had not died?

Breathe in..._Is it worth the pain?_ Tim asked the universe at large. _Is the pain of loss worth the effort expended in making the connections?_ Breathe out...

Two bombs killed an entire team. Two bombs had taken three lives, three wonderful people who were doing the job that _he_ should have been doing. Three people...two had been bad enough. Two men doing their jobs...dead. Rick and Jim gone forever. Then, Paula...broken from watching her team die, damaged from more than the force of the explosion...she died. For what? Revenge? Justice? To save the rest? Did it matter? Three lives lost.

Breathe in..._What more is there to know? What more do I need now?_ Breathe out...

Four bullets. Three from his gun, one from Archer's. Only three hit...but two were Tim's. Four bullets, one miss...complete uncertainty. Tim didn't know whether or not he had killed a man. Benedict may have been the one who died, but it was Tim's life that had really been changed by that. He still dreamt about it sometimes. Oh, he had moved on eventually, but in quiet, unguarded moments, he remembered. The death of a good man...whose blood was on his hands.

Breathe in..._What about the people who still lived, marred by injury both to body and spirit? What is it that they have? What keeps them going?_ Breathe out...

Gibbs had lost his family, twice. He had nearly died himself. He had lost his memory. He had been targeted by a terrorist. Two terrorists. Ziva had been framed, hunted...she had lost someone just when she had chanced opening her heart...and so much more that she still kept hidden. So much pain. Tony, undercover...too deeply. He had fallen in love. He lost it. A series of coincidences had saved Tim from the many times Tony had been dragged through the mud. Tony had grabbed the plague-laden envelope. He and Ziva had been the ones locked in the container. He had been framed for murder. Injury upon injury. Wound upon wound. That was life...or at least, that was _their _lives.

Breathe in..._How does one continue to live when so much is lost?_ ...breathe...out...

Death upon death. It all boiled down to numbers. Names. Kate, Erin, Benedict, Roy, Paula, Rick, Jim. All dead...why? Ari, Sharif, Archer, Malik. They died as well. For what? A cause? Revenge...deceit...money...why? Why did so many squander their lives?

...breathe...in... _We have so little time. Why does no one ever make the most of it? _...breathe...

"No, McGee! You keep breathing! I will not sit here and watch you die!"

Chest compressions. CPR. Counting...numbers...

"Breathe, McGee!"

"It is..."

"_No_! It is _not_ too late! He's still there! You hear me, Probie? You do _not_ have license to die right now. You _won't_ unless Gibbs or I say you can...and we don't. You keep breathing!"

One...two...three...

It really was all numbers. Life preserved by counting to fifteen...over and over. Life lost by the loss of those numbers, the loss of heartbeats...numbers again.

_How many bullets? How much blood? How many stories? How much do I really want to be here?_ Tim asked the universe. The universe didn't answer. It never did.

Count to fifteen...breathe...count to fifteen...breathe...

_How long will it be before another one of us leaves forever?_ _Will that one be me?_

"Please, McGee...breathe, please."

_Can I cause more wounds? The deepest wounds aren't the ones that leave physical scars. The deepest wounds are the gaping holes left by loss._

Breathe in...breathe out...

"Yes, McGee. That's it, Probie. Again...again!"

Breathe in...breathe out...

_One bullet, two hands, three lives, four bullets...and a miss. Innumerable wounds...that's life. That's my life._

Breathe in...breathe out...

"He's bleeding so much..."

Breathe in...breathe out...

_And it's the life I want. It's the life I chose and I can't cause more wounds. I can't be the one to raise the number higher._

They were there...all of them...looking down at him...as he had known they would be. He could feel them near.

"Probie..." Tony was crying. _Tony_ was _crying_.

Eyes opened...not for long. Ziva was not crying...but she was as close as he had ever seen her. Gibbs looked simultaneously relieved and terrified. Tim looked past them all...up toward the heavens...up toward the window. Broken glass was all around him.

_How many pieces?_

Breathe in...breathe out...

Five feet. Five feet from the broken bay window...to the ground. Five bullets. Four through and through...one not. Eyes closed...

"You're doing great, Probie."

Breathe in...breathe out...

How many breaths did it take to keep one alive? Did he have enough breath in him? Would he run out?

"Say something, McGee. Not a lot, just something."

How could one put suffering, decisions, the pain of loss, the pain of wounds, into words? There were no words for that.

Breathe in...breathe out...

"Please, Tim. Breathe."

"...breathe..."

"Yes!" Excitement not fitting the word spoken.

Breathe in... "...in..." ...breathe out...

One hand holding his. One hand...then, two. Two to one.

Breathe in... "...breathe..." ...breathe out...

"Please, McGee. Please, stay with me." Not us...me.

Breathe in... "...out..." ...breathe out...

Counting the moments, counting the pain, counting the wounds...counting until the numbers themselves were wounds. Wounded numbers...

"You'll make it." A statement. An order. No disagreement allowed.

Counting until the sirens gave their warning. Counting until...until numbers lost their meanings and counting until the numbers ran out and instead of numbers one was left with..._myria_, the Greek word for _ten thousand_...lots, myriads, infinity.

Breathe in...

"You'll make it, McGee."

...breathe out...

"Yes."

x.x.x.x.x

Number the wounds, but don't let them take over. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat until...

"Probie!"

"McGee!"

"Tim!"

...until you realize that you don't need to count anymore. Remember the numbers; remember the wounds.

...but...

Embrace the life.

"Welcome back!"

Smile.

"Thanks, guys."

FINIS!


End file.
